


Faded Scar Trails

by juggyjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Hurt, Panic Attack, grundy is the devil, no central ship, post 1x07 archie dealing with post grundy, very sad and bitter and heartbreaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggyjones/pseuds/juggyjones
Summary: With everything going on in Riverdale, Archie Andrews is battling demons of his own - he can still feel his music teacher's fingers on his chest, engraving themselves into a piece of him he'll never get rid of. He's battling it all on his own, until he can't anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be angsty from the beginning, but as I wrote I included a lot of things I know about anxiety and self harm and mental illnesses from my personal life. There are few detailed panic attacks and the entire fic is written from the perspective of someone suffering from light version of PTSD and anxiety, bordering with depression. Self harm is subconscious, so nothing graphic on that. However, if you are triggered or feel uneasy about any of this things, I do not recommend you to read it. Do it if you will, but at your own risk.

Fingers tug at guitar strings, the melody rugged and dark. Note by note, sound by sound – all equal the conundrum within the boy’s mind. It’s too rhythmic to be chaos, yet too intrusive not to be chaos. Personal, invasive; the only way he could put his feelings into order. It’s a steady flow, from closed eyes through the back of his neck then quadriceps to settling like heat, making home in the middle of his palms until spreading to the fingertips. 

His eyes flutter, breathing steady but shallow. Feelings gut his throat, like a knot from his lungs to the tips of his tongue. Red hair dishevelled and shirt lying forgotten on his bed, with the guitar pressed tight against his chest in a position that was all but comfortable, Archie Andrews is a mess.

One finger pulls the capo to second fret. His pinky remains on the E string, third fret and he tugs at it. Instead of hearing the melody, he feels the vibrations through his skin; a shaky breath escapes his lips. 

The wood feels cold against his bare skin. It’s late and he should be sleeping, so everything he plays is quiet and melancholic, a pandemonium of his own. Another tug at another string at another fret but it feels all the same; a cry for something different, something  _better._  

Images flash before his eyes. He sees himself and he’s younger, maybe ten, and it’s his first time carrying the guitar in his hands. It feels heavy and smells a little old, but his dad smiles at him as he follows him out of the basement. Archie’s small and the guitar is big, his fingers not quite long or skilled enough to pick at the strings but he does it nevertheless. He spends the rest of the afternoon with Fred, who’s teaching him the basics. 

Archie hasn’t been that happy his entire life.

Loss of the sharp strings beneath his fingers feels like a puzzle missing. He ignores the strain of his fingertips or the suspicious looking lines on them. With the back of his hand he wipes his forehead, hair sticking to it in a mush of heavy humidity and his own sweat. 

He takes in a deep breath before playing again, softer this time; slower. It’s a melody he’s played for weeks now, combination of a gentle strumming pattern, gravely minor chords, with a finger-picking intro that shifts according to his mood. 

It’s sharp, now. It stings and he thinks music shouldn’t sting over his fingertips, but he presses them to hard against the strings it shouldn’t be possible sound’s still being produced. 

His breathing gets heavy and strumming pattern fastens, new images forming right there in his room. He sees Jughead, angry and sad and almost breaking because Archie messed up; the strumming gets violent. He sees Betty, crying because he can’t be the man she wants him to; his hands fall and he has to struggle to pull them back. He sees his dad, disappointment lingering in his eyes when Archie told him he wants to do music; his fingers stop and he can’t do it anymore.

He sees Grundy on the 4th of July and he thinks how much of a fool he’s been. He sees her long hair, now a mess from the countless times he’s ran his hands through it. Sweat shimmering on her neck after they’ve made love at her place, and he feels her fingers on his bare chest before she kisses him on the lips.

Archie closes his eyes. He can feel them stinging more than Grundy’s fingerprints burned into his skin; it hurts more than it did when they sent her away. Now, he wonders whether any of it was real - whether she looked at him and saw just another boy, or she looked at him and saw someone she was genuinely interested in.

He’s always thought it was the latter. Now that he’s been forced to see the other side of the things, he isn’t sure which answer he needs.

He feels played; toyed with. He feels like none of it matters, because at the end of the day, it didn’t feel like he was anything special to her. She was his first - and he was just a number to her. He knows that. He  _guesses_  that. All he thinks is, he should’ve seen that when it was happening.

When he realizes he’s still playing and the entirety of his left hand is burning from the pressure on the strings, he releases them. The other one is red from the strumming because using a handpick wasn’t necessary when he picked the strings. All he hears is his heavy and raspy breathing, lungs filling with air but never full of it. He gasps for more, but oxygen keeps reaching only to the entry of his throat no matter how hard he inhales.

His heartbeat is rapid, he realizes. His hands are sweating and there’s saltiness on his lips and hair is glued to his skin and he knows it’s not from the overheated room. He feels so cold, so lifeless and he can barely lift his hand to wipe the sweat off his lashes.

For a moment, there’s no panic. He feels like he’s weightless and the weight pressing on his chest and not allowing him to relax seems to float inside his rib cage, like an alien mass made of particles of his own. His eyes are still closed and he tries to picture it, green and blue and crimson in the heart of it – a geoid, just like the Earth, an irregular shape clogging up his body.

Until it erupts and he’s clutching the bed sheets, eyes wide in horror. His mind thinks of Grundy’s fingers on his body and he feels sick, then Betty’s heartbroken face and his hands fall limp, and the resentment in Jughead’s eyes when he cancelled their plans and Fred’s face and Veronica’s and Valerie’s and  _they all merge into one—_

Somebody turns on the light in the room opposite of his. He sees Betty enter, even though it’s well past two in the morning, face a little redder than he’s used to. She doesn’t notice him, instead goes to bed and turns off the light.

Then he remembers that her sister’s pregnant and missing and Jughead is going to come back soon and Jason is dead and he has  _no right to act like this_. 

His breathing steadies only ten minutes later, when he’s so out of air he thinks he’s going to die. But he doesn’t, and he feels like shit and guilty because all his problems consist of a broken and betrayed heart. He doesn’t know how to deal with all this, but he has to, because everyone else has their own problems and his are minute compared to them.

So he puts back the guitar afraid to touch it again, pulls the covers to his chin and the light’s off until Jughead comes back, without a word. Archie doesn’t fall asleep for a while, mind racing back and forth around everything that’s happened since summer. 

After first panic attack, Archie Andrews feels like an utter drama queen because it was over nothing. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Arch,” Betty says as she topples down on the other side of the table, Jughead right by her side. “How are you?”

The redheaded boy looks up from his guitar. His light eyes are glassy and it doesn’t seem like he sees anything clearly, but he still smiles. “Great, yeah. You two? How’s the investigation going?”

It’s just the three of them and they’ve known each other since forever, but he still notices when the silence befalls. He thinks of the times they spent together not talking, or doing anything in particular, and it’d feel just right – now it was the two exchanging glances that didn’t include him.

He understands. It stings a little, but his smile doesn’t falter because he knows they have every right to exclude him from whatever is going on between them. 

“It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me.” It’s honest. “I get it.”

Betty doesn’t look at him. Her eyes fall to her lap and he sees blush creeping onto her cheeks, but she doesn’t say anything. 

Jughead, on the other hand, looks him in the eye and Archie knows the dark haired boy understands. Putting a fry in his mouth, he shrugs and grins – as Jughead Jones does. 

“Don’t worry, buddy,” he says. “We know you’re busy anyway, wouldn’t bother.”

Archie nods. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Soon, Veronica and Kevin join them and he sees Valerie wave at him from the other side of the school yard. The two pipe in with the newest gossip, unaware of the fact that none of the three are paying much attention to them. Jughead and Betty are discussing quietly, eating fries and burgers and green apples, and Archie’s head is everywhere but here.

He wants them to stop talking, to tell the sleuths that he wants and can help. There’s nothing keeping him busy, as music’s not his getaway anymore because it drags him into feelings he’d like to forget. He can’t concentrate on the football field without feeling the pressure in his chest and his breath growing rapid every time he’d look to the bleachers and see a light-haired girl with glasses. He’s got nothing to do, nothing to occupy his thoughts with so it’s just running in circles. 

It’s the same, every night. He sees all of them, looking at him like he’s failed them and he knows he did. 

But he doesn’t say any of it, because he understands that Jughead and Betty don’t want his help because he’s not a part of their team. He’s been a dick to both of them, despite neither of them deserved any of it - and it’s only fair he’s paying for it now.

Instead he strums the guitar again, head in the clouds. His fingertips are sore and red and hard from the pressure he’s putting on the strings and he doesn’t notice when the four look at him, exchanging glances in concern.

He’s too far gone already to notice any of it.

 

* * *

 

Archie almost slips off the edge when they find Polly, without a scratch. He’s in class, not up to date with the current events in Riverdale because he’s trying to have good grades and he feels awful for not noticing Jughead and Betty and Veronica and Kevin were all missing from class. 

He excuses himself for a hall pass and only reaches the bathroom in time to rid of his poor breakfast in one of the stalls. He’s coughing and there’s this all too familiar feeling in his chest that he’s learnt to accept as a part of self. He crouches above the toilet until he’s done, and then he has only a minute to prepare until the anxiety hits in full blast. 

This time, he tries to get a hold of himself. He stands up, supporting his body against the stall walls and his back feel awful cold sliding next to it. Eyes still closed and mouth parted, he’s counting up and down but he’s not steadying, he’s not getting better. 

He sees it, all over again. Feels her fingers over her body, hears Jughead say they don’t need him, Betty’s face now filled with resentment and he knows Veronica would agree with them. And he knows it’s okay, because that’s just what he deserves and he’s just being melodramatic again. 

“Archie?” he hears Moose’s soft voice, right outside his stall. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. He lowers his oxygen intake until he isn’t so loud anymore, and his voice is steady enough to sound normal. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Mr. Willock’s worried about you. I’ll wait until you’re done.”

It doesn’t cross Archie’s mind that his teacher didn’t have to send Moose to check in on him. He could’ve been on the toilet for all Willock knew and it isn’t a regular thing for any of the teachers to send students after other students. 

None of that was what mattered in the moment; Archie just needs to get a control of his breathing enough to not sound erratic. His palms leave wet imprints on the stall door when he exits, fingers shaking and knees barely supporting his decreasing weight. 

Moose eyes him, up and down. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure,” Archie replies. 

He doesn’t wait for Moose to follow, or check if he was behind. Until the end of the day, the feeling in his chest rises to his throat few more times and each is worse, because there is nothing left in his stomach. He barely eats when he comes home, dropping onto his bed as if it were his saviour.

He doesn’t stop feeling this way until he’s sound asleep, with Jughead back from his crusade with the girl next door. He doesn’t know Jughead lingers at the door, watching his best friend and noticing his pale he looks; doesn’t know that Jughead doesn’t fall asleep until he’s made sure three times that Archie’s covered in blankets, with a glass of water by his side, texting Betty for advice on how to deal with the situation.

He doesn’t know any of that, because he’s too tired to do anything but sleep.

 

* * *

 

Things get worse, gradually. It’s not abrupt – bruises on his knuckles aren’t obvious until they’ve been a constant for weeks. They only get bigger and darker, accompanied with cuts on his legs he gets from morning jogs through the forest. His eyes are darker now, wearier; the purple shadowing into blue beneath them don’t do much to hide that fact. He barely sleeps anymore, though he’s learned to control his breathing so Jughead, now a permanent resident of the Andrews household, doesn’t notice anything. 

There’s a punching bag in his room. It’s his best friend, now that his other two have one another and are dealing with problems much bigger than those petty he has. Every time he feels her hands on his they carve into his skin a permanent mark of what he’s been true - and it hurts, hurts  _so fucking much_  but he never says anything - every time he feels it, he punches. 

He punches and pounds and roars until his bare knuckles are itching and all too warm and he can see blood on them. He punches because he’s too angry for music and he’s broken up with Valerie a long time ago and his dad has problems of his own.

“I thought people use gloves for boxing.”

Archie slips and misses; his hand flies right by the punching bag and it lands on his face, followed by a deep groan. He turns to face Jughead. The dark boy leans against the doorway, arms crossed on his chest. There’s something in his eyes Archie can’t decipher. 

“No, I—” he begins, but there is nothing he can say. “What are you doing here?”

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “I thought I live here?”

“I thought you were out with Betty.” He doesn’t mean to make it sound accusatory; it’s honest and simple, yet a shadow crosses Jughead’s face and he winces at the words as if Archie said something horrible. “I just wasn’t expecting you to come home so soon.”

“We finished sooner,” Jughead replies. There’s heaviness to his tone, one that doesn’t slip Archie’s notice.

He knows they’re together, but doesn’t say anything. It’s none of his business, anyway – there’s no jealousy towards either of them, only disappointment in the fact they figured it’s better not to tell him, and he understands. He didn’t give him a reason to tell him, after all; he barely even sees them anymore. Had it not been for the fact Jughead’s still his roommate, he would’ve fallen out of contact with them a long time ago.

Archie nods, taking a long look at his pulsating knuckles. He notices the way he can see them blister with blood and raw skin, sweat tickling and itching, irritating his skin. They don’t hurt yet, but he knows it’s going to be a pain in the morning and he’d have to use a disinfectant before he goes to sleep to prevent it from getting worse.

But he’s used to it, now. He’s used to the pain that comes with boxing without gloves, to the pain of branches sticking themselves in his legs and arms and sore feet from running around wearing bad shoes; he’s used to going to school with people not noticing how tired he looks and no one knows he hasn’t slept longer than three hours in a month.

“All right,” Archie says. “I’m going to take a shower and—“

“Archie.” Jughead’s tone is authoritative and decisive; enough for the redheaded boy’s eyes to shoot up. “Let me look at your hands.”

Instinctively, Archie pushes them behind his back. They’re beginning to get sore now, knuckles threatening to burst but his heart is still beating fast and his breath is hitched from the strength and will he’d given in to punching the bag.

“Why? They’re fine.”

“You spent two hours boxing without your gloves, Archie.” Jughead’s voice is tired, older than he remembers; he looks at his best friend and sees a boy—a man—he didn’t get to know. “It can’t be good for your hands. Let me see them.”

“I said it’s fine, Jug. Don’t worry about me.”

It slips his mind what Jughead says, and he doesn’t realize that the boy’s been gone for a little over two and half hours, spending his time working on the school paper with Betty. He doesn’t think of how he could know that he’s been boxing for two hours, because Archie doesn’t think anyone notices what’s been happening with him, because everyone’s so consumed with their own troubles his feel miniscule, insignificant.

He sighs, averting his eyes. It falls heavy to his chest but he knows that there’s nothing to be discussed about concerning the way he boxes, especially not with Jughead. He doesn’t wear gloves because it makes it feel more real, more like he’s fighting an actual person and not just a punching bag and when he’s done, when his hands are in pain and muscles sore, he knows he’s doing something to rid his emotions.

He tries to get to the bathroom, but Jughead presses his hands against his chest and pushes him back inside, closing the door. “You’re not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Jughead—“  _I’m sweaty and it’s freezing_ , he means to say, but doesn’t. He falls on his bed and realizes Jughead now has at least an inch over him and he’s not as skinny as he used to be.

His dark hair is a mess, with grey crown beanie half dangling off his head. He looks angry and mad about something and for the first time in a while, Archie feels guilty that he’s allowed someone to see him like this. It was his plan to box for another an hour or so and get to bed before Jughead comes back, with bandages covering his knuckles and a glass of water by his head.

Now that he stares into the grey eyes, he thinks he should’ve been more careful.

“If you stay like this you’ll get hypothermia,” Jughead states. “If I were you, I’d talk fast.”

Archie sighs. “I like boxing without gloves. It makes me feel good.”

“No, buddy, that’s not what I’m talking about.” Standing before him, Jughead seems big and threatening and Archie wonders what he did to make him this angry. He feels a little scared, because Jughead doesn’t  _get_  angry. “What’s been up with you?”

“Nothing. I’m serious, Jug; I’m fine. Now let me go to the bathroom.” He tries to get up but Jughead pushes him back down.

“Ah, no.” He shakes his head at Archie. “What you’re doing is punishing yourself for whatever reason you think it’s for.”

“I’m not—“

“No? All right, tell me then – why do you box without gloves on?”

Archie thinks about it, but there’s only one answer that makes sense and is honest. “The pain makes me feel good.” He thinks how stupid it sounds and how Jughead must laugh at him now, because Archie’s just so  _stupid_.

But no laugh ever comes. Jughead’s poker face falls and anger rises and Archie can feel the same happening inside his throat.

“It’s called self harm, Archie. Punishing yourself. You likely don’t even understand that is what you’re doing, but your hands are crimson and all shades of indigo. You’re not a masochist, Archie. You know that. But pain releases stimulants to your brain similar to those of absolution. It makes you feel better because it feels like you’re redeeming yourself.”

Jughead falls silent and Archie averts his eyes because he feels looking at him would burn. 

“I’m here for you, Archie. I don’t know how many times I’ll have to tell you that. Whatever’s been happening, you can rely on me. I know how it feels to be alone and you were there when I needed you and I’ll be there when you’ll need me. And if it’s at four pm after school or three am on a Sunday, I’ll be there. You don’t have to be alone.”

He feels Jughead’s stare, but doesn’t look up. He knows he’ll continue.

“You can’t sleep, you stay awake and think it’s the end of the world and if you fall asleep, maybe it’ll all end and you don’t know how to feel about it. Or maybe it’s not the end of the world and you don’t know which would be worse, because you walk around feeling like no one knows what you’re going through. They just don’t seem to pay enough attention and you know you should be mad about it, but you’re glad.”

Jughead swallows dryly; Archie can hear it. 

“Self punishment is a psychological response to trauma, Archie, when people think it’s their fault when they’re the victim. They take all the blame on themselves and it results in a shift of their mind, slowly driving them insane. Whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault. Please, Archie – don’t slip. Don’t.”

Archie’s eyes linger on his feet for the longest time as his mind processes Jughead’s words. He thinks about the tone, emotional and deprived of any sign of sardonic or sarcastic remarks, honest and overwhelmed. He tries to think about what he said, but he can’t because he refuses to think Jughead’s wasting his precious time that he could spend solving murders with Betty on  _him_.

His fingers feel cold again, blue at the tips. His lips are quivering and chest tightens more and more as he realizes that Jughead knows what he’s talking about – the only way someone could know it is from personal experience. And he recalls the time when he was without a roof above his head, forced to sleep at school and at the Drive-In and under bridges because no one noticed, and he thinks if the reason why he didn’t tell anyone was the same one why Archie keeps to himself.

It’s not; he knows that. Being homeless and feeling dizzy, distracted or anxious at times are quite differently positioned on the scale of bad and he’s just being overdramatic again because it’s far from being the same. It doesn’t help that his breath is getting hitched in his throat again, and his heart is ready to make a hole in his rib cage, fingers trembling as he brings them to his sweaty forehead.

“Archie,” he hears Jughead’s voice coming from far away. He thinks it might be his hand on his shoulder, but he’s not sure if there even  _is_  a hand there – his body is hypersensitive and his chest is cold and he feels like he’s losing his grip. “Archie, take a breath.”

He does. It’s painful and his throat stings at the touch of air, the redheaded boy clutching the bed sheets and blinking faster than is humanly possible because everything is blurry. His thoughts are a long string of one after another, following a trail of thing she can hardly even take hold of before they’re gone and only leaving the heaviness in the back of his throat.

Archie doesn’t cry. He pants and gasps with eyes wide open and there’s tears streaming down his face but it’s not tears, it’s his body reacting to the immense pressure and anxiety it needs to fend off.

Her fingers are imprinting themselves on his chest and he closes his eyes shut. Forces himself to feel his feet attached to the ground, his hands holding the bed sheets. Jughead’s hand on his shoulder burns but he uses it to anchor himself, just like he’s done countless times before.

When he can finally breathe again, his throat is sore and he’s sweating more than he did when he trained. There’s a blanket over his torso, source of heat he didn’t realize he needed. He doesn’t say anything and neither does Jughead, for a while. Archie doesn’t say it’s the first time someone witnessed a dramatic episode of his.

So he does the only thing he finds appropriate: he apologizes.

“Archie,  _no_ ,” Jughead says quietly. His voice breaks and Archie wonders if it was  _that_ embarrassing, and he doesn’t look up. “Archie, stop doing this. Panic attack is body’s way of coping with the anxiety of your thoughts.”

“I’m wired up to be like this,” was all the exasperated Archie could muster.

The grip on his shoulder tightens, tugging him. He looks up and there is so much concern and worry and sadness and guilt on Jughead’s face he feels overwhelmed again. This time, though, he doesn’t look away.

“It’s a perfectly healthy response your body does to protect you, Archie.” Jughead’s voice is soft and so are his eyes. “It’s nothing to feel bad about. It happens to me, to Betty, to Veronica, everyone. It’s  _normal_.”

“It’s pathetic.”

Jughead doesn’t say anything for a long time. “How long has this been happening?”

“Since October.”

There is a deep sigh from the other boy and he lowers his head. When he looks up again, something feels different. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” admits Archie. “It’s stupid and irrelevant and you all have bigger things to worry about.”

It comes as a shock to Jughead, judging by his reaction. “You’re my best friend. When I was in trouble, you took me in without a second thought.”

“It was—”

“No. Let me finish.” There is a shadow of something for the briefest of moments on the dark haired boy’s face. “I noticed something was wrong. We all did. Every time we tried to bring up the subject, you rejected us before we had the chance to begin. I tried to help you the best I could because I could see you were struggling.”

“Yeah, but—”

“God, Archie, do you ever listen? You know how much I hate speeches and now I’m giving you one so you better shut up and let me say all I want, all right?”

When Jughead rises his eyebrows, Archie realizes he’s waiting for confirmation. “Yeah. Promise.”

“Everyone tried to help you, but we let it slide because you didn’t want it, and it seemed you were dealing with it on your own. I hated it, I still do, but I thought you deserve to get through it without us being nosy around your business. Now that I know we were wrong about everything… Forgive me, Archie.”

“I don’t have anything to forgive, Jug.” It’s honest. “And I’m doing fine.”

“You’re doing horribly. Panic attacks alone are heavy shit and they don’t seem to be the top of your troubles.” 

Nobody says anything and after a while, Jughead averts his eyes and glances at the house visible from the Andrews’ window. It’s odd, for Archie; the silence between them has been unsettling for so long he no longer recalls when it was like this. Having his best friend by his side after having a breakdown feels like healing herbs to his wounds, to say the least.

He leans into Jughead. Figuratively, at first, until they’re hugging and Archie feels a different kind of loose marching his way. Jughead’s holding him and he remembers how it used to feel when they were brothers and it reminds him of that, but Archie still isn’t crying. 

“It’s all right, bud,” Jughead tells him. “If you want to tell me, I’m here to listen.”

Archie nods, recollects himself just long enough to say, “Tell Betty she can come in.”

All Jughead does is nod, then raise his voice and say her name. She barges in, red and flustered with worry washing over her, but neither of the two ask him how he knows.

He tells them, despite that. He tells them he’s noticed and known since it began, that he can see them communicating late at night through the window when they think he’s sleeping. He tells them he understands, and they don’t ask what. He tells them he’s happy for them and tells them that he knew she’d be waiting outside because it’s the only thing he could picture her doing in this situation.

He feels lighter when he’s done. Betty’s eyes are puffy and lips quivering and even Jughead by his side looks distraught. They exchange a glance and Jughead tightens his grip on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Arch. We both are,” he says, and Archie knows he means it. “We didn’t want to bother anyone with it and it was all kind of a byproduct of the investigation.”

“We thought you hardly noticed anything happening around you,” Betty adds and it’s not supposed to be mean or hurtful and it doesn’t hurt. “I’m sorry.”

They fall quiet and Archie feels gratitude swarm over him. Betty sits on the chair in front of him and Jughead’s still having his hand on his shoulder, what anchors him more than any other thing in the world right now. 

When he’s ready and he begins his story, they listen without interrupting. 

The next moment is when Archie finally cries.

 

* * *

 

 

A month later, things are still gloomy and he still feels her hands over his chest when he can’t fall asleep at nights. He hears her voice whispering his name, can’t look into the music room where they kissed and the movies they’ve seen together become poison for him. 

But now, he has Jughead by his side all the time, Betty as well. When things go bad for him at least one of them help him through it, make sure it doesn’t get too bad for him to handle. He’s going to see a therapist soon and although he’s not looking forward to it, the two assure him it is for the best.

Things aren’t good – they’re far from it. But for the first time, there’s sunrise on the horizon and Archie feels a little lighter, a little happier and picks up the guitar two months after the confession. He’s learned to accept things as they were by March and by April, her hands don’t sting as much as they used to. 

By the time June arrives, her hands are replaced by Jughead’s grip on his shoulder and his hat and Betty’s cheeky smile and high ponytail. It’s Veronica’s pearls and Kevin’s snarky comments, his dad’s honest concern and hugs he wakes up to. It’s the care from all the people in his life, and even though things are still bad, the horizon isn’t just sun anymore – it’s hope. 

He’s not good when they he goes on the roadtrip with Jughead for the 4th of July. It’s sleepless nights and flashbacks they both try hard to wipe away, but it’s the only way he can get through this. And he’s glad he has Jughead, because if he didn’t, he doesn’t know what would’ve happened. Things are hard and he’s not good, and won’t be good for a while.

But he’s so, so much  _better_.

**Author's Note:**

> Archie is my favourite character on Riverdale because he's so simple, little bit selfish but overall good-hearted, just a little oblivious. I wish the show explored this side of him but it hasn't, so I took it upon myself. You can keep up-to-date with my other fics on tumblr @riverdalefiction.


End file.
